


Lemonade

by winterkill



Series: Love is the Death of Duty [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, Fiber Arts, Margaery brings her some lemons, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, They're just gals being pals, gross misuse of Bran's three-eyed powers, this fic has lemons and IS a lemon, well maybe a lime?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: Sansa's been queen for four months when Margaery shows up at the gates of Winterfell with a cart full of lemons.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Series: Love is the Death of Duty [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687402
Comments: 30
Kudos: 236





	Lemonade

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to write this for femslash February, but I'm quite late.
> 
> This fic is a prequel to my other fic _Love is the Death of Duty_. That's probably why most people are reading it, but just in case there's any new readers, you don't need to have read it to understand this.
> 
> Although...you might want to go read it after this. 😄

Her father’s bannermen, assembled in Winterfell’s great hall, all look at Bran like he should be King in the North.

“It’s right, by law,” one of them calls out.

“It’s just the way things are done,” another follows.

“I can’t be a king,” Bran answers, “The King in the North must be a Stark, and I am no longer merely that.”

His voice has a lilting flatness to it, so different from the little brother Sansa remembers running around the yard trailing after Robb, Jon, and Theon. Bran left Winterfell and returned as someone else entirely. 

Sansa supposes they all did, in their own way.

“Lord Rickon, then,” a third one calls.

“A half-feral child,” Maege Mormont stands from her place at the table, “He is too young, and can barely read.”

 _She speaks the truth,_ Sansa thinks, _Rickon is changed as well._ Rickon will learn, but he is half-wilding and keeping him stationary isn’t an easy feat. If Rickon sits on the throne, someone else will rule through him.

“All of you,” Bran calls out, and even though he can’t rise from his chair as Ned Stark would have, everyone quiets. “It is my sister Sansa, who clothed and housed you through the Long Night. It is she who kept your families safe, who kept wise counsel in the defense of Winterfell.”

“Aye,” Maege Mormont agrees, “If all of you weren’t so focused on whether your ruler has a cock, you’d see it.”

“There must always be a Stark at Winterfell,” Arya chimes in; Sansa hadn’t even known she was in the hall. “There’s only one who’s fit to be your queen.”

 _What are they doing? I'm not a queen._ She's a girl of sixteen. A small voice in her mind whispers _Robb fashioned himself as a king even younger. Joffrey, too._ Joffrey was cruel, and an idiot. Robb, for all Sansa's love for her brother, made mistakes. Before he left for King’s Landing, Jon said to her _it should be you._

As if possessed, Sansa stands from her seat at the head table, hands clasped in front of her. "I recognize that it is unconventional, but I _am_ the eldest surviving child of Eddard Stark. In Dorne, that would make me his heir.”

“We’re not in Dorne,” someone calls out.

“My lord,” Sansa keeps her expression neutral, “I should think that is obvious from the weather.”

Arya doesn’t even _try_ to mask her cackle.

Sansa clears her throat and continues, “We can’t continue the way we were before--we’ve all lost too much, and we must change if we’re going to endure.”

* * *

Sansa appoints Bran as her Hand and listens to counsel from anyone she thinks might have good advice. She’s young, and while notions of the grandeur and majesty of being a queen left her long ago, she quickly discovers there’s much she doesn’t know. 

There’s a steep learning curve, and she spends many of her free moments in the godswood praying to the Crone to guide her hand. She visits the crypts, too, stands at the statue of her father and tries to remember him, wondering what course he would take, and if he would approve of her.

“Father would be proud of you,” Bran tells her after a number of weeks have passed.

“How do you know?” Sometimes, Sansa can’t tell if Bran is Bran, or if he’s the Three Eyed Raven. She’s not even sure _what_ that means.

He smiles a bit, and Sansa becomes more confident that she’s talking to Bran. “Because I know Father, and I know you.”

Tears prick behind Sansa’s eyes, and she squeezes them shut. Queens don’t cry, even in the privacy of their solar. 

“Thank you,” she says, “I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” Bran replies.

* * *

Many bannermen call on Sansa in the first few months of her tenure as queen. They bend the knee to her, offering their resources and their aid, and Sansa welcomes them all, but lets none of them get too close.

They suggest marriage--the bolder ones to themselves, but most to their eldest sons or nephews. Sansa refuses them all; she’s not ceding the power she only just grasped to a man, no matter how chivalrous and noble he _seems._

_I don’t trust any of them that aren’t my kin._

In the fourth month, just after Sansa’s nameday, a wholly unexpected guest arrives--Margaery Tyrell.

Her retinue is small--a handful of guards and two lady’s maids. Sansa tries not to let her confusion be evident in her expression when Margaery enters the great hall. She rises from her chair and offers Margaery the same courtesy and protection that she would offer any guest housed in her walls.

Margaery is as elegant as Sansa remembers--brown curls and clever brown eyes. As a girl, she’d looked at Margaery's womanly figure with envy, imagining what she would look like when she became a woman grown. 

“I come on behalf of House Tyrell to offer aid and friendship,” Margaery drops into a curtsy so deep that Sansa nearly envies it; she could probably repeat that with a stack of tomes on her head, just like Sansa’s septa used to make her do as a girl. Sansa’s own womanly courtesies have fallen into disrepair.

Curtsies were useless in a war.

“We thank you,” Sansa replies, “the bounty of the Reach is known all across Westeros; we would be glad to arrange a trade.”

For what, Sansa isn’t sure--unless she can convince Margaery that melting snow is an export. 

“I’d love to discuss a mutually beneficial relationship,” Margaery gives a familiar smirk, “I also brought an _entire_ cart of lemons.”

* * *

Winterfell lacks a feminine presence; it makes Sansa realize how much of her childhood was spent in the company of women. It hadn’t seemed odd at the time--she was the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North. She was an advantageous bride, and she needed to be courteous and domestic and demure.

They were sisters, but she wouldn’t find that company in Arya. Despite everything changed about her, she is still the scrappy, dirty-kneed girl Sansa remembers. When they were children, it made them be at odds and quarrel, but now Sansa loves Arya for it.

Sansa misses companionship the way she had when she was a girl and was effectively held prisoner in King’s Landing. She’d nearly gone mad in her grief and isolation. Margaery and her ladies were a balm, then, a tiny window of normalcy. Even though Olenna’s machinations were behind it, Margaery tried to free Sansa from her circumstances; it’s something Sansa hasn’t forgotten.

The whole thing makes Sansa feel so foolishly girlish that she invites Margaery to tea in her solar. 

“Lemon cakes,” Margaery says when she sits at the table next to Sansa, “I hoped you were still fond of them when I traversed half of Westeros with a cart of lemons.”

“Very much so,” Sansa replies, pouring tea for each of them and placing the ceramic pot back on the table. A small candle burns beneath to keep it warm. “I haven’t had one since...probably back in King’s Landing.”

“We ate them together,” Margaery replies, “gods, doesn’t that feel like it happened to other people?”

“Yes,” Sansa agrees, “I remember it fondly, though. It might be the _only_ thing I remember fondly.” _Because I was trapped; a bird in a cage subject to the cruelty and whims of others._

Margaery sips at her tea, watching Sansa with an expression she can’t quite read, “I wanted to help you, then. I thought perhaps we could be sisters, and you could live in Highgarden with us.”

“That fantasy carried me through for a long time,” Sansa savors the bright taste of a bite of cake, “I’m glad it didn’t come to pass, though.”

If the words wound Margaery, she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she smirks in that way of hers that lifts one side of her mouth. “You like being _Queen_ Sansa, don’t you?”

 _It’s not exactly that._

“I like not being at anyone else’s mercy.”

Margaery laughs, “Whatever else could I mean?”

* * *

Afternoon tea becomes a ritual Sansa is going to miss dearly when Margaery returns to Highgarden. She hasn’t stated how long she and her retinue intend to stay, but Sansa is willing to extend her hospitality as long as Margaery desires.

So a sennight turns into a fortnight, and Sansa keeps serving her guest tea and lemon cakes. 

“You know,” Margaery whispers almost conspiratorially one afternoon, “Lemon cakes are delicious, but there’s something _else_ we can make with juiced lemons.”

“Yes?” 

“I’ll have them make it tomorrow.”

Sansa’s had fish prepared with lemon before, but that’s the only other application she can think of. She assumes that Margaery is going to waltz into Winterfell’s kitchens and enlist the help of some poor cook.

At tea the next day, a pitcher filled with ice appears in Sansa’s solar instead of tea; she peers into it and turns to look at Margaery.

“Water?”

“Yes, but not just.” She pours Sansa a glass and passes it to her.

Sansa takes a sip, and the taste startles her; it’s tart, but sweet, and the flavor dances on her tongue. It’s like if a lemon cake was made into a beverage. She takes another drink before asking, “What’s the name of this?”

“Lemonade. It’s sweetened with honey.”

“You drink this at Highgarden?”

Margaery’s giggle is girlish, “In the summers; it’s too cold here.”

Cold be damned, Sansa drinks three glasses and gives herself a stomach ache.

_No one can scold a queen._

* * *

The afternoons give her time to sew or embroider--ruling leaves too little time for such activities, and she misses them. It’s soothing to create things, and it gives Sansa an immediate sense of accomplishment that ruling a kingdom usually lacks.

Sansa decides to make Margaery a gift--a white handkerchief embroidered with lemons and roses along the edges. She’d almost rather make Margaery something warm, but a handkerchief will have more use when she returns to Highgarden.

The project takes less than a week; Sansa even works on it during their afternoon chats, and Margaery doesn’t take notice.

Sansa presents it to her, folded neatly and tied with a ribbon she found in the bureau that belonged to her mother. “A token of friendship,” Sansa says.

“Friendship,” Margaery repeats, untying the ribbon slowly. She unfolds the handkerchief and smiles, tracing her fingertips over the embroidery. “Your stitches are fine.”

Foolishly, Sansa feels her cheeks heat, “My septa and Mother always praised them. Yours are lovely, too.”

Margaery shakes her head, and her curls dance around her shoulders, “A performance to impress suitors, Queen Sansa. I was never meant to use it to actually create something useful.”

_How much of our lives were just performance?_

“It might seem foolish,” Sansa glances to the row of lemons, “in the wake of a war, for a queen to spend her time on something so trifling.”

“Not at all,” Maragery smiles and holds the handkerchief out before her. “What is life without these simple pleasures?”

“The everyday for most, despite my efforts,” she laments, “I feel guilty indulging sometimes.”

“You’re a queen. A queen is a symbol. You give the people hope, so you must care for yourself.”

Sansa isn’t prone to excess; she’s not Robert Baratheon, putting her kingdom into debt with people starving in the streets while she indulges in vice.

“I suppose...lemons won’t ruin a kingdom.”

“Spoken like a true queen,” Margaery holds the handkerchief delicately and stands, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I thought you deserved something to remember your visit by.”

“Queen Sansa, how many suitors have asked for your hand?”

The change in topics startles Sansa; a second passes before she replies, “A dozen, mayhaps.”

Margaery’s mouth quirks upward, “In half a year. You’re quite popular.”

“They just want the throne.”

“Not all of them.”

Suddenly, Margaery’s face is _quite_ close. Sansa means to ask what she’s doing, but the chance is lost when Margaery presses her lips againsts Sansa’s. If it were a wedding, the kiss is _just_ long enough that a septon might cough to break the amorous couple apart. Although, Sansa married one of her lady’s maids to a blacksmith a fortnight ago, and their kiss in the godswood was _much_ longer.

Actually, Sansa isn’t exactly sure _how_ long a kiss is supposed to last.

It’s long enough, though, that Sansa’s eyes fall shut. When she opens them, Margaery is smiling, her face still just a handspan away. The last person who kissed Sansa was Petyr Baelish; she _really_ doesn’t want to remember that at this moment.

Margaery tastes like the lemonade they’d been drinking--sweet, but with a bite of tartness. Somehow, it suits her perfectly.

* * *

It occurs to Sansa, the day after Margaery kisses her, that she has _no one_ to tell about it. When she was a girl, Jeyne Poole and she used to imagine the handsome knight or prince they’d marry one day. They’d stay awake, late into the night, side-by-side in Sansa’s bed, giggling and imagining kissing and bedding ceremonies.

_The entire thing is nothing like we imagined._

Now that someone _has_ kissed Sansa, though, she wishes for someone like Jeyne. She certainly can’t ask Bran about kissing, The fact that Bran could already _know_ sends a shiver down Sansa’s spine.

Which just leaves her with...Arya.

_Well, at worst she’ll mock me._

Sansa finds Arya in her chambers, which is much better than in the yard; she doesn’t fancy the idea of discussing kissing Margaery Tyrell in front of training squires.

“Arya, have you ever kissed someone?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

“Gendry kissed me at your coronation feast,” her sister shrugs. “We’ve done it a fair few times since then.”

Sansa feels the _most_ un-queenly ever when she asks, “And...do you enjoy it?”

Arya grins, “What’s not to like?”

 _Many things,_ but that doesn’t need to be brought up. Arya and she suffered different hardships, but they were together, and home, and that was all that mattered. Sansa is glad Arya is happy kissing Gendry the blacksmith, just as she’s happy for Arya to train with Needle and slip through Winterfell like a ghost.

Her sister is looking at her expectantly, so Sansa says, “I’m sure there’s something not to like.”

“Did someone kiss you?”

“...Yes.”

“Were you unwilling?” Arya reaches for Needle at her hip, “Tell me, and I’ll make quick work of them.”

“No, it’s not like that, but what if _you_ were kissed when you didn’t wish to be?”

Arya’s expression shifts to the calm, deadly one that used to make Sansa’s blood run cold, “I’d gut him like a fish.”

Sansa finds herself giggling, “I would, too, actually.”

* * *

Like a coward, Sansa avoids having tea with Margaery the next day. The excuse is an easy one--Howland Reed and his daughter Meera visit from Greywater Watch. Sansa, as queen, has to receive them. 

Margaery sits at the end of the head table during dinner, but they don’t speak, and Sansa retires to her chambers soon after. She means to work, but ends up embroidering a second handkerchief. _Lemons and direwolves make for an odd combination._ It matches Margaery’s--a token of friendship between them. Sansa can look at it fondly in the future when they’re apart.

 _Friends don’t kiss,_ a tiny, but growing, voice in the back of her mind says. Margaery is a woman, though, and Sansa has truly never thought of that before. It’s honestly been _years_ since she thought of anything--romance wasn’t real, and while there were true knights, none of them were for her to swoon over.

Anyone she would wed would force to her yield. Sansa’s spine is made of steel, and she will bend to no one ever again. They just want the throne. Margaery’s words float through her mind. _“Not all of them.”_

A noise outside her chamber door breaks Sansa from her spiraling thoughts.

“The Queen has retired for the night,” her door guard says.

“If you’d permit me to see that for myself,” Margaery’s tone is honey-sweet.

“I’m afraid I cannot.”

Sansa can imagine the expression on Margaery’s face; if she wants entry, she’ll charm her way through the door. She finds that she doesn’t mind seeing Margaery; even after the kiss, Sansa doesn’t want to make her guest, her _friend,_ feel unwelcome.

She opens the door and peers into the hall, “It’s alright; Lady Margaery can enter. I wasn’t asleep anyway.”

Margaery smirks at the guard, _“See._ I told you Queen Sansa wouldn’t mind.”

“Is there--” Sansa fumbles, “Can I do something for you?”

“Maybe,” Margaery replies. Her smile is _always_ enigmatic, and Sansa never can divine what’s behind the upward curl of her lips. It could be genuine, or it could be a scheme. She’s wearing a heavy robe, but underneath is a nightgown _wholly_ inappropriate for the cold--green silk with a low neckline that has Sansa looking away.

 _Damn all the Southern fashions._ She so wanted to wear them when she was a girl in King’s Landing. Sansa’s own nightdress reaches her chin.

“I’m sorry for missing our tea today.”

“A tragedy,” she replies, “I _so_ look forward to our interactions.”

Sansa’s heart rate increases. _A stupid little girl who doesn’t know what she wants._ She takes a deep breath. “I enjoy our time together as well.”

“When you were a girl, did you ever sleep with other girls and talk late into the night?”

“...I did.”

“I did as well; although, I might have spent just as much time with my brother Willas. I used to get scared, and he would tell me stories.”

Sansa smiles, “I used to do that for Bran and Rickon. Never Arya, though. She’s had more mettle than I, even as children.”

“You’re brave and clever,” Margaery shakes her head; her hair is down for sleep, and the curls do their usual dance across her shoulders. 

_Queens don’t blush._ It happens regardless; Robb told her once, long ago, that she came to match her hair when she was embarrassed. Certainly, her mother never blushed like this--she was a lady, and carried herself as such.

“So are you,” Sansa replies.

“I played coy and seduced. I wasn’t the master, just a pawn in someone else’s game.”

“Me too,” Sansa replies, “Until I learned to turn the game in my favor.”

“My fate no longer,” Margaery’s next smile is more genuine. “Nor is it yours.”

They’re kindred spirits, and the comfort that provides Sansa is a relief she can’t express. Margaery, who’d been wed thrice at her family’s behest, who used her beauty to charm and seduce for her family’s gain.

“I’m a queen.”

“I’ve been a queen thrice, but never a _true_ queen, only an ornament,” Margaery steps closer until she’s awash in the flicking light from Sansa’s candle. The sight makes Sansa want to touch, but she doesn’t quite understand _why._ “Would you like to do as girls do, and talk until dawn?”

Sansa smiles, “I would.”

* * *

It’s not _quite_ like when Sansa was a girl. 

She’s quite beyond imagining courtly love. There’s nothing to giggle over or imagine; they aren’t heroines in an old song where it’s always spring. Maybe Margaery was less fanciful, even as a girl, and never imagined those things. 

Margaery probably always knew the truth of her station or her value.

They sit, side-by-side in the dark with only one lit taper. Sansa tells Margaery the _entire_ story--from the moment Littlefinger spirited her away from King’s Landing to Brienne and Jaime rescuing her from the Eyrie and bringing her home.

Sansa sighs, wrapping her arms around her bent knees and resting her chin on them. 

“It’s a significant amount of me being hauled across Westeros by other people.” She’d been kidnapped and kept and rescued. “I couldn’t get myself home.”

“There’s no need to admonish yourself for it,” Margaery bumps her shoulder into Sansa’s.

Sansa leans into Margaery, and they support one another; she likes the way that feels. It’s not that she’s alone or lonely, but this is different from her siblings. _It’s been a long time since I’ve been comfortable around someone._ Life taught her to be wary, and while it was prudent, there might be a need to unlearn it.

“I’m not brave like Robb and Father, or even Arya.” _How did a foolish girl like me become a queen?_

“Bravery is more than wielding a sword; it’s choosing something for yourself and having the fortitude to stand by it.”

“I _chose_ this,” Sansa feels stronger for having said it. “For their fealty, I promised stability. I promised that I would build on what Father left.”

Margaery drapes an arm over Sansa’s shoulders; the weight is comforting. “This is _not_ the girl talk I was imagining, you know. We’re young--we should be talking about kissing and beautiful gowns.”

 _Young._ Sansa doesn’t remember feeling young. “The last person who kissed me was Petyr Baelish. He told me--he told me I looked exactly like my lady mother. That--that’s who he _wanted_ , and he looked at me and saw her.”

“That’s…” Margaery pauses, _“vile.”_

“I _hated_ it,” Sansa shuts her eyes, “everytime he touched me. I could feel it after, for hours and hours.”

It was different than Joffrey slapping her, or ordering his Kingsguard to beat her. _That was just pain._ Bruises and cuts faded, but the feeling of Littlefinger touching her lingered.

“Did he…?”

Sansa shakes her head, “No, I’m a maid.”

“One person has kissed you since,” Margaery says it like it _wasn’t_ her. “I didn’t realize the significance of it. With all your suitors, I assumed they tried to woo you.”

“None got that close.”

 _But you did,_ Sansa thinks, _because I didn’t realize what was happening. Another foolish thing._

Margaery smiles, barely visible in the candlelight; Sansa sees the charm in it, and it makes her heart race a bit. She wasn’t sure a girlish feeling like that had been left in her.

“May I do it again?”

“Not yet, but _I_ can.”

Sansa’s kiss is tentative and tinged with her inexperience. She isn’t sure what to do beyond pressing her lips against Margaery’s and closing her eyes. There should be movement, Sansa knows, but not how to initiate it. Mostly, she feels _aware_ \--the arm around her, a lock of Margaery’s hair that tickles her, the fact that she puts her hand on Margaery’s knee to steady herself.

Long ago, she looked to Margaery for guidance, and there’s an echo of that when she tilts a bit and moves into the kiss. Then, she’s anchoring a hand at the base of Sansa’s braid, and it’s quite lovely when Sansa gasps a breath, and Margaery swipes her tongue against Sansa’s bottom lip.

Then, Margaery is pulling them together, resting against the pillows until Sansa is prone beside her on the bed. Sansa never considered how another woman would feel; Margaery is soft in the same places, and being held close by someone she knows is her friend is surprisingly comforting.

Margaery doesn’t stop at Sansa’s lips--she leaves a trail of kisses across Sansa’s cheek, lingering at a soft spot below her ear that Sansa’s didn’t even know existed to give her pleasure.

“Your clothes are _so_ dour,” she complains, undoing the buttons on Sansa’s collar. 

“It’s _cold_ here.”

When that’s done, Margaery kisses Sansa’s neck, and the gesture is so sweeping that she has to grab hold of Margaery’s nightgown. Her palm lands too near Margaery’s breast, which startles Sansa and makes Margaery dissolve into a fit of laughter.

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

 _Everything_ feels flushed and wonderful and so, so _new_ that Sansa doesn’t want to quit. “I’d like to continue, if you agree.”

Margaery’s smile grows, “A queen ought to do as she pleases.”

* * *

Sansa decides that she quite enjoys kisses.

There’s quite a bit of variety to them that she never considered. There’s the quick, almost familial peck that Margaery might give her if they pass in a corridor when no one is looking, or the slightly lingering kiss Margaery presses to Sansa’s cheek while pouring her tea. Once, Margaery even kissed the back of Sansa’s hand, like a knight might do for his lady.

 _That_ one had her nearly giggling through a council meeting.

Not all are quite so innocent--Margaery visits her at night, and they sit on Sansa’s bed. The conversations, more often than not, turn to kisses traded between them. Margaery has the boon of seemingly more experience, but Sansa is learning. It’s been so, so long since she wanted to talk, and even longer since she had someone to talk to. Margaery laces their fingers together, or rests an arm around her shoulders like the first night, and Sansa’s feelings about _everything_ pour out.

Well, everything _except_ Margaery.

Sansa knows that Margaery is a good friend, and that she feels no inclination to stop kissing her. What she _doesn’t_ know is if that’s a bad thing--no one ever mentioned kissing another woman to her. The only lessons Sansa learned from her mother or Septa Mordane was that she must be pure for her lord husband, and that she would need to be dutiful and bear his sons.

 _Where does my purity lie, and when does it end?_ Sansa is determined not to wed, so what is she saving herself for now? Septa Mordane and her mother are dead.

Arya, ever willful, would tell Sansa to do as she likes.

“Bran,” she hopes she doesn’t regret this line of conversation, “you know _everything_ , correct?”

“Not exactly.” He sounds like _Bran_ this time, which comforts Sansa deeply. “I can _look_ for everything, should I choose; I’m not omniscient.”

_Seven be merciful, I hope he hasn’t been looking too closely at me._

“Do...women...and _other_ women...act as a lord and lady would?”

To Sansa’s immense surprise, Bran laughs; her brother's laughter is even rarer than her own. “They _do_ , actually. It’s just not discussed at length. Is this about Lady Margaery?”

Horrified, Sansa reddens, “Bran, have you been _looking?”_

“Only with my two eyes.”

* * *

In a fit of anxiety, Sansa starts knitting Margaery a cowl.

Since she was a girl, Sansa found solace in making things--when she felt powerless in King’s Landing, or at the Eyrie, she picked up an embroidery hoop or a pair of knitting needles. No one paid any mind to highborn girl sewing, and it gave her time to think and plot. It’s also a way to express love for those around her, and she thanks the Seven that there are people left in her life to give them to.

Sansa means for the scarf to be elegant because Margaery is nothing if not that. She also wants Margaery to be able to get some use out of it, and practicality wins out. She chooses the softest wool yarn she has and a simple stitch pattern. Working on it nearly every spare moment, it takes her three days to finish it.

“You're unused to the climate here,” Sansa says when they sit down for lemonade; it’s rarely been tea since the day Margaery kissed her.

“There’s ways to get warm,” Margaery replies mildly, sipping at her lemonade, “some I haven’t even tried yet.”

The accompanying cookies today are shortbread with some type of nut--maybe almonds? Sansa nibbles on one to buy herself time. When she’s ready, she reaches into the sewing basket beside her chair and holds up the cowl. 

“To keep you warm while you’re here.” 

Margaery squishes the cowl in her hands and smiles. The yarn is heather-gray, which Sansa thinks is too plain. Margaery puts it over her head and half her face vanishes with it.

Her voice is a bit muffled when she says, “It’s soft.”

“It’s wool,” Sansa stands and reaches out to pull the cowl so it’s covering Margaery’s hair and no longer obscuring her face. “The softest I could find, and it’s adjustable, so you can pull it up over your head if it’s snowing.”

“Be careful, Queen Sansa, or I’ll assume you’re trying to court me.”

It’s a bit of shock to Sansa, but she realizes, in that moment, that’s _exactly_ what she’s trying to do. She made tokens of affection to garner her lover’s favor. _Lover._ The word makes her smile--kings throughout the ages took lovers, many of whom were not their wives.

_Why can’t a queen ruling alone do the same?_

Margaery’s kisses are familiar now--the tiny peck she usually begins with, and the mischievous look in her eyes right after. Sometimes, she waits for Sansa to initiate the next kiss. Today, Sansa leans down and presses her their lips together. The usual crescendo swells within her at the contact, and she’s _very_ glad she bolted her door. The kiss is slow, and lovely, and Margaery tastes like lemonade again. Sansa slides her hands under the cowl and touches the smooth skin at the neckline of her gown. _Still not enough coverage._

“I think I _am_ trying to,” Sansa whispers.

“I just thought you expressed your affection through gifts.”

For some reason, _that_ embarrasses Sansa more than the talk of courting and the kissing. “I...also do that,” she replies.

When Margaery stands, she takes Sansa’s hands in hers and squeezes them. The gesture makes Sansa giddy. _She’s beautiful, and clever, and she_ knows _me._ It’s a little overwhelming being so _happy_ over something.

“Do you know how I show mine?” 

“Does it involve kissing?”

“The Queen in the North is clever,” she tugs Sansa closer, “I know a _touch_ more than kissing.”

Feeling vulnerable is a great hurdle for her, but she finds herself nodding. Sansa doesn’t know how things should go, but every bit of her wishes to learn. Margaery’s smile is warm as she pulls Sansa along to sit on the edge of her bed.

“This was my parent’s bed,” Sansa looks up at the canopy, “....I was probably conceived in this bed. I’ve never thought of that before.”

Margaery trails her fingertips over the dark, engraved wood of one of the bedposts. It’s easy for Sansa to imagine the gesture on her skin; she shivers at the thought. “The bed has stories, certainly. It won’t mind us, then.”

“Well, we won’t be making a babe,” Sansa is pleased with her jest.

“No, I suppose not,” Margaery laughs and reaches for the long line of buttons down Sansa’s back. She’s four or five in before she continues, “You’re still so conservative.”

“I envied your dresses,” Sansa admits, “And your hair. You looked so mature. Father would _never_ have let me.”

“How warm does it get here?”

Half the buttons are undone; Margaery’s hand is warm through Sansa’s shift. “Warm enough to swim. We thought so as children, at least.”

“Wear one, then--dress in the Southern style and ward your suitors off with a stick.”

All the buttons are loose, and the dress sags with nothing to hold it up. Margaery pulls on Sansa’s sleeves until her arms are free. The bodice pools in her lap

“I couldn’t,” Sansa answers, “They wouldn’t suit me as they do you.”

Margaery’s dress today, while long-sleeved, wouldn’t serve her well outside the castle--the back is half-bare, and the neckline plunges too low. Sansa catches herself staring at the skin it reveals.

“Try mine on, _after_ , and you’ll see,” she glides a hand over Sansa’s hair, “You’ve grown, and you’re quite pretty.”

Margaery kisses her once more, distracting Sansa from the fact that she’s undoing the laces on her corset with one hand and sliding the other under Sansa’s skirts. She rests her hand on Sansa’s thigh, above her stockings, fingers drifting inward. It _tickles_ and makes Sansa feel very, _very_ warm. 

“Take it off,” Margaery’s breath tickles her ear and makes her shiver. Sansa stands and lets the loosened dress and corset fall to the fur rug under the bed. “Now help me.”

Sansa felt seduced while Margaery disrobed her, but the reverse isn’t true. The lacings on Margaery’s dress are simple, and when it falls, Sansa realizes she’s wearing nothing under it but her smallclothes.

 _“Oh,”_ she says dumbly.

What Sansa looked at before with childish envy is now something she desires.

Margaery settles on the bed and pulls Sansa against her so they’re back-to-front with Sansa between Margaery’s thighs. They’ve never been this close before, and certainly not with so little between them. Margaery’s breasts press against Sansa’ back, and her brown curls tumble over Sansa’s shoulder, mingling with the auburn of her hair.

“What are you--?”

Her answer is to trail her fingers over the upper swell of Sansa’s breast before repeating the gesture on her nipple through the fabric. Sansa jumps, but the arm around her waist holds her steady.

“Something your hypothetical suitors won’t.”

It feels like her blood is singing when Margaery pushes her shift up and walks her fingers up the inside of her thigh. Sansa feels a tinge of embarrassment at how wet her smallclothes are when Margaery reaches them. She nearly says _something,_ but Margaery laughing in her ear stops her. Her fingers sliding over the fabric make Sansa arch off the bed, and Margaery laughs harder. When she pushes the fabric aside, Sansa shuts her eyes in embarrassment.

When Margaery slips a finger into her, Sansa spreads her knees to give Margaery better access. It’s a lewd and improper gesture, but that doesn’t matter when Margaery spreads the wetness upward and rubs a slow circle at the spot above her entrance. She bumped this, before, in her own attempts, but nowhere _near_ with Margaery’s efficiency. She cups Sansa’s breast with her other hand.

When the tension mounts, Sansa turns as best she can to look at Margaery, whose expression is nothing but a fond smile. She kisses Sansa somewhere between her ear and her cheek and whispers, “Just let it happen.” 

Margaery doesn’t pull her away until Sansa falls apart under her hands.

Sansa lets her eyes fall shut, and she sags against Margaery. “Where...did you learn that?”

“Have you ever touched yourself?”

“N-not like that.”

“One of my lady’s maids,” she answers, “before I married Renly. A useful skill, given that he wouldn’t touch me. She was probably the age I am now.”

_I’d forgotten that even though she’s been wed thrice, none of them--_

“You and Renly never consummated.”

“He loved Loras. I offered, once, to share him, if it would help. He refused.”

Sansa curls her legs up and turns to rest her cheek against Margaery’s breast; she can feel her heartbeat, and her skin is warm. 

“I’m sorry.”

“No. I wasn’t what he desired,” she pauses, “It would’ve made for a long, dutiful marriage, but it was what was asked of me. And, you know the next all too well.”

 _“Joffrey.”_ It seems a curse to utter his name in a space this peaceful. 

“A blessing that neither of us were made to suffer that.”

Sansa nods and keeps her eyes closed, “Lord Tyrion never tried after the first night.”

“Tommen was sweet, but _much_ too young. It would’ve been _years_ before he was interested in anything but his kittens.”

She opens her eyes and glances up at Margaery, “So you’re a maid?”

Margaery laughs, “In the strictest since, I suppose.”

 _Am I no longer, after that?_ If so _,_ the thought doesn’t bother Sansa; she’s not content with the idea that her virtue is a part of what makes her a prize to be won. She’d rather give herself freely than be claimed by another.

Margaery drops a kiss on the crown of Sansa’s head, “Don’t dwell on it over much. Your lord husband wouldn’t know about this.”

“Yours wouldn’t, either.” Sansa traces the outer curve of Margaery’s breast with her fingertips and wonders if she could touch Margaery as she had been touched. It’s a nice thought. The gesture makes Margaery sigh softly. 

“I…” Margaery pauses, and the uncertainty is an odd emotion from her, “I don’t think Willas will make another match for me. I’m three times a widow and not even twenty years old. I think I might be cursed.”

“That’s not your fault,” Sansa sounds indignant, “You deserve a fine and noble lord husband.”

“I don’t want one.”

All Sansa dreamed of as a girl was being wed to someone noble and good, but now she _hates_ the idea of either of them being wed out of a sense of duty. Sansa sits up so she can look Margaery in the eye; it’s a bit challenging when she’s so pretty and mostly nude--her gaze keeps wandering elsewhere. 

“What _do_ you want?”

“To be the master of my own fate; you’ve proven it can be done.”

A blush creeps onto Sansa’s cheeks, and she suddenly feels very exposed, even still in her shift. Margaery seems to have no such concerns about her own state of undress. Instead, she reaches out and starts undoing Sansa’s mussed braid. 

“It was Bran, Jon, and Arya who pushed me to it.”

Margaery smiles as she brushes through Sansa’s hair with her fingers. “But _you’re_ the one that did it. You survived and made it _all_ the way here.”

“I’ll miss your company,” Sansa admits, “When you return to Highgarden.”

“I thought of remaining for a while; I’m not needed at home, and we haven’t yet discussed a trade agreement.”

In an outpouring of affection, Sansa propels herself forward and embraces Margaery. The flimsy cloth does little to act as a barrier between them, and she resolves to divest herself of it soon. Then, she’s going to try touching for herself. Margaery returns the hug, and Sansa hides her heated cheeks Margaery’s hair.

“I asked Bran if two women could act as a lord husband and his lady wife might.”

Margaery’s amusement comes through in her tone, _“Oh my._ How indecorous a question. What did he say?”

“He told me they could, and have throughout the ages.” 

“I could have answered that question,” Margaery lilts, “Be prepared for no one to notice us.”

“Why?”

“We’ll seem as close friends,” she answers, “Even though I brought you a dowry of sorts.”

Sansa laughs, “The lemons?” 

“I thought to bring you something you desired, but couldn’t get by yourself.”

Sansa smiles and kisses Margaery again; she still tastes like lemonade, “You _absolutely_ did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are love! You can find me on tumblr @ kurikaesu-haru.


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